


Adam Pierson's Diary

by Amand_r



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:15:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alcohol Units: 2 (alcohol bad bad bad), hours of sleep: 8, number of ice packs applied to head: 14, number of heads taken: 0 (but considering self-decapitation).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adam Pierson's Diary

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Adam Pierson, Duncan MacLeod, or any of the other characters form Highlander: The Series, nor do I own Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones. Actually, she's not in this; I just stole the writing format. Even if that is copyrighted, I don't make any money from that, so. Eh...this is spawned by the idea of where Methos was and what he was doing while Mac was being tormented by Ahriman.

**March 9th**

Alcohol Units: 2 (v.b.), hours of sleep: 4, languages spoken accidentally: 3, number of times challenged: 0 (v.g!), number of heads taken: 0 (which could be either very bad or very good....hmmm, very good then. No risk is no risk.)

Sitting in the bar tonight with Joe and we're having this discussion about beheadings in ancient Rome. It's really odd, to have to talk about this stuff with him, because to him it's something so far removed. It's not like he was there or anything. I had my knee propped up on the table.

Sadly, on a no-liquor streak. What's that all about? Better off drinking, more as not. But as the tea was flowing (doesn't even sound as good as "the meade wast floweing and there yonder maidens didst strippet theyr burgeoning gownes. Did we say burgeoning then? Fuckket.) Joe lets slip the Chronicles of Peter Gaicus.

"Well, when he took Marconus outside the forum, I bet everyone was surprised." His face tells me that his tea has not been so chastely pure as mine. Jealousy is an evil thing. I sniff my brewing concoction. There are these monks who make alcoholic, or something or other teas in the outer rim of Mongolia...

After I let it casually slip that Gaicus was in fact a scrotty bugger, he is less than impressed. What is with people who think that just because something is written down in a book it has to be correct? I know for a fact that the 1698 version of The Bible contains fifteen pages that the printer made up off the top of his head because his drunken son vomited in the Illuminated manuscript that they were copying from. Luckily, they were from Leviticus, so no one seems to notice.

Must learn to keep mouth shut. Temporary nature of literature lost concept on drunken people. Am subjected to terrible lecture on the immediacy of truth, and the instability of the world. Am wise enough to be very quiet. Every month or so, Joe gets really drunk and tells me that he's through covering for Mac, and that's not the way you treat a bloke, and he's not going to lie in the bleeding Chronicles anymore, man, because they're like, you know, works of history.

Kept mouth shut. I tell Joe this story every time we're at the bar. He refuses to believe me about Gaicus. Just watch, I'll have to tell him again. Pretend to be gagged. Am very successful.

MacLeod is an asshole. I mean, I know I've said it before, but sometimes reinforcement, like duct tape, is the only way to go.

 **March 13th**

Alcohol units: 12 (better), Hours of sleep: 12 (muuuuuuuch better!), number of heads taken: 1 (I wish! None, actually.), number of time called Joe and told him Mac is insane: 12 (I should take the ominous sign of the triple twelve seriously, and buy a lottery ticket), Number of lottery tickets: 12. Number of winning tickets: 4 (yes!)

8:45 a.m. Dragged out of bed too early this morning by Richie, who is insisting that I go visit Mac, because the man is, as he says "fucking wicky gidgets". Doesn't anyone ever say batty anymore? Does there have to be a big production around crazy? He doesn't just wait for me to get up, either. I am slavishly dragged out of bed, into the shower, and driven to that farging barge to check on the Scot, who is himself sitting on the deck with a bowl of Frosted Flakes. He looks healthy enough.

Remember Bridget? She had a word for shit like this: Fuckwittage.

10:05 a.m. Ryan was right: Mac is a man on the edge. I am so not one for ancient demons and all this shit. Joe has a word for all of this, and I bet it sounds a lot like "fuckwittage".

11:36 a.m. I'm not even interested in going for a walk. So Mac is telling this story about this Professor's daughter and the book of the Chosen one and I just have to pipe in.

"MacLeod, I have never even seen a simple magic trick, let alone a God. Why does everyone think that age means supernatural wisdom?" It's cold outside. Have I mentioned that Paris sucks right now?

"Come on Methos," Ryan pipes in, "Are you saying that you have never seen anything spooky or anything? You've never seen a ghost?" His mouth is so pouty when he says that, like those fucking posters for that new band *NSync that dot the kiosk boards. Spare a moment to curse the boybands.

"The spookiest thing I have ever seen was the rise of polyester," I reply. He doesn't want wisdom anyway. Mac thinks all of this is funny. But funny ha ha or funny uh oh?

1:45 a.m. Ahriman? Mac is being stalked by Ahriman? I don't even know whom the fuck that is! Must go do library research.

6:24 p.m. Sorbonne, University Library. Mac has to be insane. Either that or we're all seriously screwed. Neither is good. Am meeting Joe at the bar. Might even have a drink.

3 a.m. FUCK all powrfrng demonz. Grots singbr macca forman. Hi ho in the furbishin. Urk! Doorstop.

 **March 14th**

Alcohol Units: 2 (alcohol bad bad bad), hours of sleep: 8, number of ice packs applied to head: 14, number of heads taken: 0 (but considering self-decapitation). 11:04 a.m. Woke to shrill noise. Wasn't quite sure what said noise was. Took good fifteen rings to find phone cradled in pillow under knees. Pant leg off. Doorstop clutched in left hand. Must let go of doorstop to pick up phone receiver. Will not talk. Must press button.

Joe is on line. I am considering hanging up, but he sounds pretty upset. Apparently last night's drinking binge has not lessened his fear for Mac. News from Richie has the man talking to himself on that barge of his. I don't see why we can't get him a dog. Ice pack...uh...ice pack.

11:25 a.m. Beginning to think skin is so evolutionarily advanced that it can absorb water directly from the shower spray and into the bloodstream on contact. Ooop! Where did that doorstop come from?

4:47 p.m. Joe's Bar Am working on third pint when Joe decides that we are the men to talk Mac out of his insanity. Avoid the subject of Herman, Mellville, who foolishly ignored me the last time I tried to talk a man out of doing something insane. Thusly, all may blame me for Moby Dick. Future generations languish in honor of the most insane men who never stepped foot on boat.

Consider fourth pint before leaving. Joe has able legs for fake ones.

5:21 p.m. Mac is inside the barge talking to himself. Sad for a moment that all the fate of the world lies on the shoulders of an insane person. Think to self that perhaps this isn't the first time. Remember that unvarnished opinion is not going to be appreciated here.

"Mac, we're worried," I say. It's a great opener--straight, to the point, no beating around.

Mac doesn't agree. He does that little frown-y thing, kind of sexy. Under other circumstances (like if Amanda's brain were in Mac's body), I might be tempted. Instead, take a minute to wonder if sword wasn't a good idea.

"I'm not crazy." That's all we get because the phone rings and Richie is sure that Joe has been abducted by Horton. Life is awfully, well, fucked. Joe agrees when he's read this.

 **March 18th**

Alcohol units: 15 (Hagh), Hours of sleep: 3, dollars spent on Ryan's funeral: $8, 659, people who came to Ryan's funeral: 2 (counting self), moments spent wondering about own death: 942, people who will probably attend own funeral: 2 (counting self).

12:07 a.m. In honor:

TOP FIVE RICHARD RYAN MOMENTS:

1\. Time caught him boffing blow up/suck off doll in communal showers at gym, moaning "Kristen". Rather the best one, that.  
2\. Expression of complete disbelief when Mac told him who I really was. Also rather amusing.  
3\. Time exposed him to Akvaavit and he vomited all over Mac's pilothouse deck.  
4\. Time beat Mac in fighter practice and fell off deck screaming "yes!". In direct contrast, smelled like the Seine for three days afterward.  
5\. Time locked Amanda in storeroom and forgot she was there, only to have his apartment flooded with three cases of apricot brandy in feminine retaliation.

TOP FIVE RICHARD RYAN QUOTES:

1\. "Dude!", or "Dude?", or "Dude." or "Duuuuuuuuuuude!" (See no 3 above)  
2\. "I was just trying it out, Mac. Hey!"  
3\. "Man, you should have seen her; her tits were like, hu--oh hi, Mac."  
4\. "I am old enough to drink! Adam! Stop telling them to card me!"  
5\. "Come on, admit it, a blow job beats a Quickening any day."

What would/will I do without all this excitement? Refuse to get sappy without liquor.

4:56 a.m. Why am I feeling bad? Knew this would happen someday. Inevitability is the greatest hobbyhorse of the world. Perhaps weeping for stale cigars and a dusty motorbike in a ratty apartment complex on the South side of the Latin Quarter. For little Maria who will always wonder where her big "brother" went. Whoops. For a bad turn on the racetrack. No more for Ryan. Too many hopes and dreams won't see the light will they, now?

 **March 31**

Alcohol units: 9 (so de rigueur), hours of sleep:6, tasteless cigars: 3 (it's all Joe's fault), private investigators' report no leads on MacLeod: 4, moments spent pondering the possibility of overseas travel: 364.

3:12 a.m. If time were a facet of the imagination, I suppose I'd own all creative rights. Sounds like the beginning to an Atwood novel. Go me.

Sitting in Joe's bar (funny how many entries this year start like this), and have just finished telling Joe about Gaicus for the fiftieth time. Joe shakes head. Fills glass. Marks down how many bourbons I have had. In pencil. Note to self: go and erase marks later.

Do not talk about Ryan that much. Last week was more for that. Conversations uneventful. Rehashing Richie is like digging in a splinter hole with...a really bad simile. Really bad similes are good for nothing else but digging in holes, really.

So very glad no one reads this. Would wreck self-image as literary powerhouse.

Joe asks about Quickenings. What do they feel like? etc. Have heard before. Completely tiresome. Cannot, however, use standard response to Joe, which is "it's raining. Here, take this metal rod. Go outside, hold to sky. Wait."

It is because Richie is dead, and he is wondering if it was painful. Have no response, because beheader and beheaded experience must surely be different.

About time mentioned Quickenings in general, seeing as how in 5000 years, I have never said anything, and no one has asked me in the past fifteen hundred years, save Byron, who needed other words that rhymed with "quicken". (Do not suggest "dick in", a completely sensible response that is apparently fit only for a limerick) Not that I have much room to talk. Speaking as more an observer than a recipient in the past few years, it is a little offsetting to watch.

Joe's current mental state is one where the slightest step might make him verbally and physically sick. Note to self: proceed with caution.

"Lightning comes from nowhere, and zips down the throat. The occasional immortal will try to ground the brunt of all charges in the ground via their sword. Silly poofs." Joe fills my glass. Ah, I love free liquor.

"It's kind of blurry after that, you know," I say, swirling glass. Swirling glass does not do anything to bourbon this bad. It just makes me look more intellectual. Young facial features make people doubt me. Only a disadvantage with drunken Joe.

"What was the last head you took?" Joe mutters, even though he would know that. I stare at the tabletop. "Oh man, I'm sorry--"

People keep apologizing for the Horsemen. I should be apologizing, but no one seems to be thinking that except for Mac. Interesting turn of events. Do not feel bad for time with the Horsemen. Remind self that nostalgia is the opiate of the morons. Hate outdoor privies and horses. Prefer hot bath to tepid, and hula-hoops sucked (and still do).

Decide right then and there to be as truthful as possible.

"It's bloody erotic, and painful, and not in any way, shape or form describable. Unless you lick electric sockets for fun."

Joe's face screws up. "Nope."

"There you have it. I have this theory, that the electricity cooks Immortals under the skin, just like being electrocuted does to mortals. You know when they cut their skin away, underneath they're all black?" I hate to say this. Sounds sick and too well thought out. Spending time contemplating new ways to hurt myself is so passe.

Joe drinks himself at that. "So you're toasted on the inside, and then what? The healing kicks in and takes care of it?" He snorts. "That'd be very interesting to see."

Not a very difficult effort to not volunteer. Too bad for Ryan. Still a little raw about that.

Berating Mac for that little incident is both very difficult. Killing students can occasionally happen. Killing students because one is sure that they are actually agents of a Zoroastrian demon is another matter entirely. Or perhaps not. When was the last time one of those hit town? Make mental note to avoid all possible "champions" in the future, lest they behead me in the name of something that looks like both Kronos and  
Horton. Or perhaps if those two had a child, and it looked like Adam West. Too may bourbons.

Since Silas has not appeared, nor have any of the others inside myself, I tell Joe with much confidence that it isn't so much assimilation as acculturation. Or perhaps is that supposed to be the other way around? Joe is worried that one Immortal is sucked inside another , personality whole and intact. Were this true, I should have more personalities than Sybil.

Stop for second to fantasize about Sally Field in Flying Nun outfit. Segue to self-dressed in Flying Nun outfit. Beat head off bar.

Immortals, Immortals, I'm sick of the whole of it. Beheadings, Watchers, bourbon, for the moment. Need break. Go to warm tropical paradise with maidens that doth strippet theyr burgeoning thongs, aye, arrr...

EnD.


End file.
